Forty three

 My sister told me I should blog again. 

A lot has happened since I did this thing - I'm a little rusty.  In the last few years, I've sort of relinquished the dream of being a writer - like, a real writer, not a hobby writer - and so the act of writing became...less.  Less important, less often, less satisfying.  It's an instrument out of tune.

Why relinquish the dream? Life got busy.  A lot has changed.  In the 5 years since I blogged regularly:

My son graduated high school and went on a two year mission for our church.

My daughter turned 12, 13, 14, and 15.  Fifteen!  

We moved a couple of times.

Trump became president. 

I got a job and started teaching, then principal-ing and now director-ing.  I'm buried in it right now.

My brothers both moved away.

A pandemic.

My parents moved away (just last week, after a long time planning).

And lots of other small and big moments, mashed together in a blur.

Now here I am, still trying to figure me out.  

I used to think that when you reached 'my age', things were all figured out.  People 'my age' were settled and set, and I'm most certainly not. I think I was wrong back then, because it doesn't seem like the people I know who are also 'my age' have it all figured out.  Some are farther ahead, and some are lagging behind.  And that's all good.

I decided the other day, during some weird introspection in the car, that life is often measured in losses.  Loss of jobs, loss of love, loss of life.  They mark the years like guideposts.  The bigger the loss, the more we loved and learned and hoped before it was lost.  That realization feels sad, but it really isn't.  You can't lose what you haven't had, after all, so a life full of loss is also a life well lived.  Does that make sense? My life, today, feels well lived.  

So, in some sort of rambling way, here's what I'll say for my sister today:

I do still dream of being a writer, even if it feels like a dream deferred.  I still struggle with self confidence and self trust.  I talk too much and listen too little.  I'm still a know-it-all, to my own dismay.  I'm hope I'm learning, though.  I feel simultaneously old and young.  I can't remember this giant leap from 30 to 40. I'm baffled by the missing time.  I still struggle with being a mom and all that it means.  I want more kids, and I also don't.  My kids make me crazy proud while also making me shake my head, exasperated.  I appreciate my life more.  I wish I was a better wife.

It's complicated to be 43.